


The Impossible Year

by BubblyReality



Category: Jacksepticeye (YouTuber RPF), Markiplier (Youtuber RPF), Septiplier - Fandom
Genre: M/M, secret agent AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6916525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblyReality/pseuds/BubblyReality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean "Jack" McLoughlin feels as if he's lost his whole world after discovering his fiancée's disappearance. Although hell-bent on rescuing her alone, he's paired with the flirty, yet extremely skilled, Mark Fischbach. The two strangers work together to hunt down the woman who supposedly kidnapped Jack's fiancée and form a greater bond during thee mission than they ever thought possible. </p><p>Inspired by pellucidpilgrim's "The Good, The Bad and The Dirty"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible Year

**Author's Note:**

> Just a disclaimer: I have nothing against Signe whatsoever. She's lovely and beautiful and an amazing artist.   
> Also, I know Jan. 1st isn't Jack's birthday. Calm yourselves.

****

December 31, 2015, 23:59  
Dublin, Ireland

The room was dark; the only light filtering through the two rectangular windows being from the yellow glow from the city below as well as a few stray fireworks that were a bit early for the party. Two love birds snuggled on the sofa adjacent to one of the windows, looking out to the night sky. 

The small clock on the wall ticked the last few seconds of 2015 before an orchestra of pops, sizzles, and booms filled the city as well as the citizens’ chests, eyes and ears.

“Happy birthday, babe,” Signe purrs, a light Danish accent feathering her words. 

“Happy New Year,” Jack corrects, his own words laced with an Irish accent. He offered his fiancée a smile when she glared playfully at him.

“The sooner you accept that you’re getting older, the sooner we can move on,” Signe says, offering Jack a glass of champagne. 

He accepts the bubbly alcohol. “And the sooner I’m lowered into my grave.” 

Signe scoffed. “Now you and I both know that’s not how it works,” she said, shoving him. 

Jack only shrugged and held his glass out to her. Smiling, Signe met him in the middle with her own glass. “Happy New Year,” she said.

Jack returned the smile. “Happy New Year.”

Arms retreated back; Signe took a sip of her champagne while Jack downed his in two gulps. Signe giggled but made no comment. Instead she leaned up and planted a kiss on his scruffy cheek. Jack made a move to return the kiss, but Signe smirked and placed a hand on his chest, keeping him arm’s width away.

“What, no birthday kiss?” Jack pouted.

“I thought we weren’t celebrating your birthday?” Signe questioned slyly. 

Jack scoffed, turning his head away, pouting. Fireworks were still lighting up the sky, filling the night with blues, greens and purples. Through Jack’s eyes the colors blurred together in one streak of a horizontal blur. 

Scrubbing his face with a hand, he turned back to Signe, head feeling light and fuzzy. Lowering his hand, Signe’s features fused together and swirled. There was no way he was drunk already. He shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his head. Bad idea. Opening his eyes, the room spun and his head filled with cotton. Stomach churning, he struggled to stand, straining his ears to pick up what Signe was saying. His ears were ringing, sending a sharp pain to his temples. 

Managing to plant his feet on the ground, he realized he’d been poisoned. By who? He’d have to think about that later. In that moment he was focused on the emergency pills in the kitchen. 

Before he could take a step, everything went dark. 

 

January 1, 2016, 13:08

A thick layer of bile was the first thing Jack noticed when he began to come too. It lined his esophagus, threatening to escape any moment. Swallowing forcefully, his stomach lurched and he scrambled to his feet, rushing to the bathroom to empty what was left from last night into the toilet. 

His head pounded, sending a sharp pain through his temples, across his forehead, and down to his right eye. Vision fuzzy and spotted, he picked himself up and moved to the mirror, clutching the edges of the sink, taking a moment to right his vision by staring into the porcelain bowl before him. A drop of blood fell from his head, landing on the edge of the sink before slipping down the smooth surface. He glanced up, catching sights of a puckered, red gash that ran perpendicular from his bushy right eyebrow up his forehead and into his hairline. 

Suspicions rose on how the gash came to be and taking a trip back to the living room confirmed said suspicions. Blood splattered the corner of the coffee table situated in front of the couch and ran down the leg, staining the carpet.

He stared at the browning stain for a moment, working to remember what exactly happened the night before. 

Prodding at his wound, he winced and it all flooded back to him. 

***

The apartment was small, rectangular-shaped. With four rooms to search it didn’t take long for Jack to frantically make rounds. 

He started in the living room, taking time to dig through the sofa, look under the rug, and peek inside the lampshades. He then moved onto the kitchen, sifting through the refrigerator and turning his cabinets inside out. At this point tears well up behind his eyes, leaving his head pounding and nose running. Pushing back his tears, he quickly searched through the bedroom and bathroom before shuffling back to the living room. 

Sighing, Jack rubbed at his temples, ignoring the sharp pain that shot straight to the gash. Alright, Jack-a-boy. You need to calm down. He sat back on the sofa and turned to look out the window. Grey sky and a mist of rain greeted him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, held it, and thought. 

He thought of Signe. His beautiful fiancée, Signe. He thought about how he was overreacting and that he was a professional and god dammit he needed to keep his emotions in check if he was going to get anywhere; he needed to keep his emotions out of this. But he couldn’t. Five years together and she just gets taken from him; ripped right out of his hands. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. 

Clenching his teeth, Jack relaxes his lungs. What am I looking for anyway? He had no reason to believe that whoever took Signe left a clue; he didn’t even have reason to believe anyone took her in the first place. But he had to. He had to believe she hadn’t just left him. 

He opened his eyes and stared. Frustration flared inside his chest at the sight before him. He couldn’t believe it! How could he have been so blind? He scolded himself once again before suppressing the rage bubbling to the surface. Leaning forward, he picked up the neatly-folded card from the coffee table. It was no larger than his palm and flashed a pair of bold, red lips. 

Unfolding the cardstock, written in swirling cursive was a note that read: See you soon

 

22:30  
Dublin, Ireland  
Irish Underground

In the underground foundations of a tall, brick office building housed the headquarters of the Irish Underground. The bunch that worked there were lively, despite their outrageously dangerous jobs. There was always something exciting happening like a birthday party, a friendly lunch, and, sometimes, a drinking game took place. On this particular afternoon cake was being shared in celebration of a scientist’s fiftieth anniversary on the team. 

Although invited to help himself to a slice of cake, Jack declined and continued further downwards into the depths of the Underground. 

He worked his way past the several levels of offices, the resting quarters and infirmary, and the labs before coming to halt in front of a green door that somewhat replicated the entrance to a boiler room—thick metal coated in reddish-brown rust. He knocked twice. A small, circular camera flipped out of the wall above the door. Backing up, Jack gave a wave. The camera beeped then flipped back into the wall. A small, gridded pad then slid from the wall to the right. Jack placed his thumb on the pad, wincing at the sudden prick to his finger. The pad beeped and the door buzzed, unlocking. 

Retreating his hand, the pad pulled back into the wall. He stuck his pricked appendage onto his tongue, using his free hand to open the door. 

“Jack!” a larger man greeted, his toothy smile popping out from the tangle of his flaming red beard. He sat behind a large redwood desk on the opposite side on the room. 

Shelves lined the walls stacked with novels and manuals and textbooks. Soft yellow light filled the large, square room seeing as windows were nonexistent as far into the ground as they were. The carpet was flat and rough from years of wear and tear.

“Sir,” Jack nodded in greeting, moving to stand before the desk. 

“Please, take a seat.” Irish accent slurring his words, Anthony Cheshire motioned to the small arm chair next to Jack. 

Jack shook his head. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Cheshire folded his meaty hands in front of him, resting them on the desk. He stared, unmoving at Jack. 

Jack hesitated, glancing around the room before complying and taking a seat.

“So I’ve been told.” Cheshire smiled, sympathy filling his eyes. “What is it we can do?”

Digging into the breast pocket of his button-up Jack said, “This was left in my living room.” He pulled out a plastic pouch housing the note and offered it to the heftier Irishman.  


Cheshire pulled out a pair of gloves from his desk, putting them on before accepting the pouch. He pulled the note out of the plastic and examined it silently. Jack sat giddy and fidgety. 

Huffing, Cheshire placed the note back in the pouch. He then picked up the telephone and dialed. “Kate, I’m sending you a note. Fingerprints, DNA, and run the handwriting through the system.” He paused, listening to Kate before saying Thank you and hanging up. 

Pressing a small red button beside the phone, he spoke into the circular speaker below it. “Chace, I have a piece of evidence I need you to take to Kate in the lab.”  
“Right away, sir.”

Cheshire leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He took in Jack fully now. Jack looked well put together, but Cheshire knew better. “We’ll find her, Jack. I’ve got just the agent for the job.”

This caught Jack off guard. “You don’t need to get anyone else, sir,” he said. “I’m capable of a simple rescue mission.”

Cheshire shook his head. “You don’t understand. If this is who I think it is,” he said, holding up the note, “then I want someone who’s dealt with her before.”

Jack went to argue, but was cut off. “Besides, you are in no condition to take this on.”

“Sir, I’m fine,” Jack insisted. 

“No,” Cheshire said. “No, you’re not fine. This is your fiancée we’re talking about.”

“Exactly!”

Cheshire rolled his eyes. “You can’t seriously believe that your emotions will not interfere?”

“Please, sir,” Jack begged.

Cheshire sat silently for a heartbeat, then two, then three. Then, he gave in. “Fine,” he sighed. “But, I’m partnering you up.”

Confusion flashed across Jack’s features. “But, sir, I already have a partner.”

Cheshire shook his head. “No. Talking about another field agent; someone to physically stand by you. Someone to keep you in line.”

Jack’s jaw dropped, prepared to argue. Cheshire gave him a hard look and Jack’s arguments retreated. “Yes, sir.”

Just then a slim brunette with soft features and short slicked back hair entered the office. Cheshire stood and maneuvered around his desk to meet the other man halfway. He handed him the note and motioned to Jack.

“I’d like you to also escort Agent McLoughlin to the infirmary,” Cheshire instructed. “Get that nasty cut properly patched up.” He grinned. 

Jack fingered the hastily taped bandages and winced, standing to meet the two men in the middle of the room. 

“Agent McLoughlin, this is John,” Cheshire introduced. Jack extended his hand and offered a smile. “He started about a month ago.”

John smiled back and accepted the outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And me, you.” 

“Well, why don’t you two get going,” Cheshire said, ushering the men to the door, “and I’ll contact the American units.”

Jack dug his heels into the floor, halting in his tracks. “What do you need to contact the Americans for?” he questioned. 

Cheshire smiled. “You may want to pack a bag,” he said before closing the door in Jack’s face. 

 

4:10 AM  
Chicago, Illinois  
American Unit: Chicago Underground

Nicolas Brown slumped into his seat with a grunt, coffee from his World’s Greatest Dad mug threatening to slosh over the rim of the cup. He was a slim man with wide shoulders and a red bulb-tipped nose. He set the mug down and quickly logged onto the computer before him. He scrubbed at his cleanly-shaven face as the computer fan whirled faster, blowing warm air onto his shins. He shivered and lowered his hands, staring at his bland desktop before maneuvering to check his emails. They were all important, however one name stood out from the rest.

Anthony P. Cheshire. A name he hadn’t heard in years. Curious, Brown clicked the email, reading it over twice before picking up his phone. “Kane, I need you to send Mark Fischbach down to see me when he comes in.” The woman on the other end responded with a of course, sir and then was gone. 

Brown leaned back in his chair, skimming over the email again and again until his eyes burned, forcing him to turn his gaze to the day’s paper. 

 

6:20 AM

Mark Fischbach was a muscular man with the personality of a child. Fun-loving, easily excitable, and good with a gun, he was a gem in the Chicago Underground’s eyes and he knew it. He wouldn’t call himself narcissistic. Confident fit much better. 

He strolled through the doors of a modest coffee shop, flashing the owner a dazzling smile. “G’morning, Sammy,” he greeted cheekily, leaning against the counter. 

The lanky blond behind the counter rolled his eyes, but returned Mark’s smile with his own shy upturn of his lips. “Good morning. The usual, I take it?” 

“You bet cha,” Mark nodded. 

Samuel nodded in understanding and began preparing Mark’s cappuccino with two shots of espresso, no foam. 

Mark exchanged cash for his coffee, thanking Samuel and sending him a smile before standing and heading into the storeroom in the back of the shop. “Have a nice day,” Mark called over his shoulder. 

“You too,” Samuel said. 

The elevator in the storeroom took Mark down farther than any Average Joe would think was possible. It dropped him off in a small, concrete room with a larger elevator situated across the room. A black pad on the right of the doors scanned his entire hand and allowed him access. He took the elevator down to a welcome area of sorts; a larger area with a curved counter on softly patterned blue carpet. Behind the desk was an open office area and beyond that were the elevators that were going to take him to where he was needed.  


He took the third elevator down as far as it would go. He walked through another office space to a set of double doors of which he pushed one open. 

Brown lifted his gaze to the man in his doorway. “Sir,” Mark said. “You wanted to see me?”

Brown closed the manila folder on his desk and folded his hands upon his desk. “I’ve got a case for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now don't get your hopes up, kiddies. I'm not sure when the next update will be.


End file.
